My Darling, My Fetus en Fetu
by Lynny M
Summary: [Black Jack] Black Jack may not be the perfect parent, but Lord knows he tries. An 'Ode to Pinoco', if you will. Well executed, I think, but not the greatest thing I've ever completed.


**My Darling, My Fetus-en-Fetu**

**Author's Notes:** This is a story about Pinoco. It is supposed to be an example of the relationship between Black Jack and his adoptive daughter.

I admit that I didn't like Pinoco when I first began reading Black Jack. I found her to be annoying and unrealistic. But I would learn to love her as a character, once I came to understand her purpose: _Pinoco is the tool that keeps Black Jack from becoming inhuman_. Without her, he would become increasingly difficult to connect to emotionally. When he has to deal with Pinoco, he becomes more like a **real man** and less like an **egotistical jerkface unlicensed genius surgeon**.

…so that's my point; unfortunately, I don't exactly feel like I've done a good job. My last Black Jack fic, A Day So Bright, went much smoother, and I'm not sure that I'll ever recapture that singular passion for a story ever again. This story feels very out of place, poorly done, and dysfunctional, but I want to finish it before my summer is over. I've got other things to do. So take this fic with an open mind, and try to read it slowly…hopefully it will seem more complete that way.

**AUDIENCE:** Don't tell me what to do!

Yeah, yeah. Remember to leave a review to let me know how you feel. There were some **formatting** issues, so if you see anything strange, that's probably why. Forgive me.

-

**TO MY DAD – because he's always there for me, no matter what, and he's the greatest guy I know.**

-

He did get angry at times.

Oh yes --- people, conditions, events, they could all contribute to the rage. This time, his patient had passed away; that was reason enough to damn everything to hell, but more would come. Poor service on the flight over. A headache on the drive home, the rage boiling over and finally combusting as he walked through the front door.

In this anger, he kicked a chair. It spilled over, and he kicked it again sending it against the wall. This violence did not slake his anger, only made it stronger.

"God---God _damn _it!" His jaw snapped. He ripped open his briefcase and stared in exponential disbelief at the tools withinCscalpels, hemostats, curettes, and fine threads. All so frivolous! He grabbed them in fistfuls and threw them into the kitchen cabinets. They clattered to the floor, leaving dents in the woodwork.

Then he punted the emptied case into the refrigerator; a door in the hallway slammed open. This would be Pinoco, the auburn-haired little one. She did what any child would do: she crept out of her room, looked down the hall at him, afraid of the noises and sounds of discord. However, the phrase that came out of her mouth was unnaturally adult in its accusatory tone.

"What??"

As if to suggest that she had heard it all before, that she was tired of these temper tantrums, that he was wasting _his _energy and _her _sleep. That _he _was the childish one here.

"You get the _fuck_ back in your room!"

She slammed the door on him. It was impossible to tell if she was upset or fed up, but in the nanosecond that his attention had been shifted, he had lost his grip on the rage. For a moment, he thought he could recapture it by throwing his copy of Carson's Encyclopedia of Dissection down the hall after her, but then he only fell into the book, wracking himself over an explanation of delicate surgery of the pons.

_How he hated it when they died before he had a chance to see them._ After all those deliberations---Party A wants his service, Party C would like to pay, and Party B wants nothing to do with him in the first place---and the flight to Sydney, all that wasted effort. Most of the time, a sudden death mattered little...but this prospective patient had been young, and he was used to the young's stamina.

But he hadn't touched the patient; people died, and it didn't matter. So he sat up, shuffled a few of the spilled instruments back into the case, scanned the floor for more. He would have to clean them all, and reorder some of the more delicate pieces.

As he did this, he thought about the little girl he had upset; the fact that, come tomorrow, their relationship would be stiff and uncomfortable, and in that he would probably become angry and drive her away even further.

And she was a tyrant, too--- she got mouthy. In the end, however, she would always get sad and withdraw to the kitchen or perhaps her bedroom. It was always up to her to apologize, though. He never apologized. He would get over it and hold her, but it was up to her to figure out why.

Good lord, what an attitude! He couldn't decide if it was funny or wrong, that little brats snide mouth. She had possessed one since she was small; she called him "cheap bastard" and "god damn liar". Usually he laughed. She was bull-headed, stubborn, and loud. She threatened him with having to do his own dishes. On Sundays, she marched around the house in an apron and a dew rag.

And yet she was only a child.

How old was she? Pushing 13, he guessed, but her age fluctuated, dipped low and pitched high. She had the best work ethic when it came to mundane things like cleaning and cooking. She fancied herself a proper homemaker for him, and over the years, quickly even, she had learned by herself to cook entire meals, clean house, and behave appropriately when he had guests over.

A miracle baby, he thought morosely. That was the term people used: miracle baby. Outside, the blue of night had faded into black. He could hear his car settling, creaking in the cold wind; he thought of the heat of the engine fast escaping into the air. A miracle baby---he tended to forget that, didn't he? He tended to forget the facts of her birth and upbringing, but when he did remember the dank and peculiar origins, he was always silently amazed and held in aweCfor in all reality, he was unfit to raise such a child. He was a cold person. He held grudges. His work was precarious and he had no license to practice. He could not deal with children well. He was unfit to raise such a daughter, and yet, through some odd twist, some miraculous gift from God, _she _had been fit for _him._

-

At first glance, the patient seemed to be obese.

Then the sheet was lifted back, and Black Jack would see that the problem stemmed from a growth; a huge one at that. The patient, a woman perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, was humiliated by Black Jacks presence, and to cope she kept her face covered with a towel. The family doctor, a squat, wild-haired little man, noted that she wished that her identity be kept in secret, and he did not question the head covering. Two paramedic workers stood in the corner and looked curiously at the womans naked body.

Just another mundane house call.

Of course this had occurred early on in Black Jacks practice, at a time when his facilities were a bit slipshod and his work was much more mercenary. This was a late-night caller, and he was not very generous at three in the morning. But he could not refuse the patient (something about a cyst, yes) and all that cursing and storming around had gotten him precisely nowhere, and then here the patient sat.

Curses to these midnight emergencies, he thought. How I loathe to put up with this and these awful people!

The squat doctor motioned for his attention. ALook here. He had a bundle of x-ray sheets, and he thumbed them as if marking their importance. "This cystoma is nothing mundane. Its teratogenic."

"There is a fetus? A partial fetus here?"

"Not partial. Whole."

Black Jack examined the sheet again. Honestly shocked, he took it in his own hand. "I cant believe that."

But it was true. The doctor pointed with his index finger. "An intact brain, here. A weak but working heart, here. Internal organs, missing some of the intestine and various frivolous parts of the digestive tract. Limbs, but they are a tad crippled."

"One leg is detached, I see. Is this thing alive?"

"To an extent. We have recorded some brain waves. I would suspect it to be mentally retarded but I suppose one cannot tell yet."

"I see."

"Needless to say--- as Ive called upon your services---I cannot excise it myself. Ive tried several times, and others have tried for me. This thing, whatever you wish to call it--- a fetus, I guess---throws a fit every time she goes under the knife. Causes a severe drop in blood pressure and fluctuation of the heartbeat of the host...kicks, punches, its a mess. I worry first for her safety." He nodded toward the woman with the towel over her head.

"I am surprised you waited this long, doctor. This procrastination only exacerbates the danger. Surely this would have been less complicated if she were five or six years of age---not eighteen! A surgeon of lesser dexterity could have removed such a cystoma in its lesser stages."

"Believe me, I have tried. I would not have brought her to this..." He looked for the proper word. "..._place_ if it were not necessary."

"Her life is in jeopardy as of now."

"Which is why I called on you."

Flattery.

Black Jack made the decision then. "I will operate, but I wish to save the growth until we know if it has the capacity for life."

They argued on and off about this, but in the end Black Jack got his way. He spent the next morning drawing up a plan for the cystomas excision. He also requested that the family doctor order him a ventilator and incubator from Kansai National Hospital; he wanted to have them in case the mutated child needed such facilities. To be fair he subtracted the cost from his fee.

After a nap and a small lunch he asked the family doctor to take leave while he set up. In the days before Pinoco, he typically did his own anesthesia and pre-op. The massive growth was mopped with iodine, covered with a sterile towel, and marked up.

Once scrubbed, dressed, and under the bright lights, he began his delicate work. He cut a half-circle around the girth of the cystoma and prepared to remove the fetus-en-fetu to another Gurney. Viscous fluid spilled from the cystoma's inner sac. The growth inside was limp but well colored, complete with its own placenta. He placed the odd body into to incubator he had ordered from Kansai International.

From there on, it was very basic. He cut away the rest of the sac, cauterized the veins and cleaned and dressed the raw areas. Then he called in the family paramedics to care for her post-surgically. He had little interest in the patient herself. He cared much more for the parasitic sister. He had a need, a burning concern, to aid the fetus. It was such a _rarity_, after all. He prepped for the second time.

The pliable infant was under some of the influence of its sister's anesthesia. He took note of the malformation of the limbs, the curve of the spine, her eyes----she was female; her genitals were cloven. He felt her tummy and noted the fragile bonds of her internal organs.

He would have to open her up.

-

The child needed a million things.

It needed ligaments to the left hip, valve work, reconstruction of the rear left skull, realignment of the right forearm, various procedures on various abdominal organs, and joint work. And that was just for starters---the girl would need years ­––years!–– of therapy.

He intubated the fetus, and set it up in an isolette. Then, with all the immediate concerns taken care of, he went to have a drink. Hard liquor, too. It wasn't smart, but he felt a sudden anxiety about the work he had taken on. He was usually so straightforward about the work he did. So he sat and drank, and thought about the mess he was in. It worried him in waves, and as he drank the worry made his bowels loose.

The infant lay in its isolette for several days. Black Jack worked tirelessly on the twisted body. He enjoyed the work; it was a personal goal and it felt good to perform a surgeon's duties without the pressure of money or politics. He would operate for a few hours, perhaps reorganizing the internal organs or working on the subtle interplay of bones in the hand or foot, then set up the isolette and watch over her for the rest of the day.

At night––a time of discomfort and fright for all patients, Black Jack realized––she would cry; for fear or pain, probably a little of both. Tired but not at all angry, he would go to her and stroke her auburn hair with a gloved hand, watching her squirm and fuss with the braces and the intravenous drip. Sometimes her cries would awaken him at late, late hours, but he found that his temper never flared. To ease her to sleep, he would occasionally read to her from his medical encyclopedias, or perhaps a manual from his school days.

"The frequency of infection of the minor organs," He read once, sitting straight in the chair he had brought in from the dining room. "The gallbladder, spleen, appendix, and lymph nodes…" The cadence of his voice was calm. He read slowly and clearly, sometimes pausing to interject his own opinion on a subject.

And after several weeks of general rehabilitation, as autumn moved into a mild winter, and winter into a warm spring, when he came to know that she was not severely retarded or disabled, Black Jack purchased a set of clothes from a children's boutique and dressed the girl in it. Despite the braces and the scars, he thought the kid looked cute, and in an unusual burst of creativity, he dubbed her _Pinoco_. The fairly tale had always been a favorite of his, and it made sense––she was largely created outside the womb, and was a dollish sort of creation at that.

On a balmy spring day, when the family doctor returned to have his patient reexamined, Black Jack presented her to the sister. The reception was less than what he had hoped for. The family had no desire to take this project of error and defect. They viewed her as a curse, and would not take her. The woman ––who _still_ would not look her surgeon in the eye–– stuck her nose up and cried, "Get that little demon away from me!" So Black Jack, offended, took the child back into his arms, took his fee in its entirety, and bade the sister and her doctor away.

In short, those were the circumstances surrounding his little girl. He considered giving her up for adoption once or twice, but decided it would be more trouble than it was worth. Besides––he took a shine to the small thing that she was. If there was room in the world for him, there was room in the world for her.

-

…But first, of course, he had to learn how to be a parent. It was a painful and trying process; he didn't feel like he was the right man for the job. There were many persons in this world, and many of them were fit to love and care for little girls––but not Black Jack. No, the Black Jack that Black Jack knew was at best a shady man who had a short temper and the wrong intentions. Long ago he had given up the prospect of love and companionship. He could take care of himself, but not a child!

He _had _to learn, though. And he made a lot of mistakes in the beginning.

It was hardest when she was very young. As a toddler, she made a lot of noise, did a lot of crying, and was constantly vying for his attention. Toilet-training was perhaps the most uncomfortable time for him––he didn't like it, and instead of being gentle about it he was strict and distant; he threatened her with his terrible mood instead of encouraging her to learn. This resulted in a lot of accidents and a lot of crying, and once she deliberately peed on the living room rug because he refused to pay attention to her.

And whenever he had to leave the house to examine or operate on a patient, he had to find someone to watch over her. For her own protection he hired doctor-friends who had been open and kind to him in the past. They were fascinated with her story and often did an excellent job of taking care of her, even going so far as to test her intellect and teach her the alphabet. He was grateful for this, but also embarrassed.

Eventually, though, he became tired of always having to plan ahead; tired of this new set of rules; tired of having to bother people to babysit for him. He was tired, stressed, and strung-out––and one day, after being called out to plan cosmetic surgery on a wealthy young miss, he just up and left her there by herself.

At that time she was perhaps five or six years of age. With her it was difficult to tell. She had a "presence" of mind, an abnormal mental age, a "shine", if you will. But she was perhaps five or six, and he left her there all alone.

It wasn't until he began driving home, late that evening, that he felt the awful realization of what he had done. She could be dying of thirst. She could be hurt––or afraid. He burst through the front door with a rabid kind of frantic energy. "Pinoco-chan!" He cried. He expected the worst, he really did. But what he saw next, well––it would be quite the surprise.

Pinoco waddled out into the front room with her hair up in a little pony, an all-business expression on her face. "Doc!" She said.

"Pinoco!" He rushed to her, and took her up in his arms. "I'm sorry I left you alone, Pinoco-chan. I am sorry!"

"Doc, you're silly. But I wuv you, too."

"I do love you! Have you eaten? Oh, God…"

"I had tamago-gohan."

"You ate it cold."

"I used the stove."

"You used the stove!?"

And from then on out, it became greatly apparent that Pinoco had something a little extra going on upstairs. Maybe with other things she was a little slow, but with the most elementary things, she was grounded and capable. She could cook and clean, and she spent her days keeping house for her Doctor. She never ceased to amaze him, either––whether with her thoughts or her actions, or her bright lookout on their lives, she always appeared beyond her age.

-

So Pinoco was the product of a case of twins gone terribly awry.

In truth it was her physical struggles that Black Jack most connected with. Malformed from day one, Pinoco needed braces and two complicated operations just to _look_ like a normal human infant. She had a detached leg, mangled arms, and a slight cleft palate. Not to mention various problems with her internal organs. The work Black Jack did on her was rewarding, however. And Pinoco, though she went under the knife many times, was always grateful, never sad or indifferent, but eager to be on the path to recuperation.

This was what amazed Black Jack: her steadfast faith in his abilities. Pinoco knew she was sick, but it never got her down, never stopped her for an instant. Watching her hobble around on a crutch was less heart-wrenching than it was invigorating, inspiring. Her spirit was unstoppable. Black Jack had never seen anything like it, not even in the deepest reaches of himself.

When she was about ten years old, Black Jack realized that something needed to be done about the abnormal length of her legs. They were too short; she got by, but he knew that in later years it would become more of a problem for her. People would stare; clothes would be difficult to fit. One evening, after dinner, as they sat together in the living room, he brought it up. He asked if she would like a lengthening; asked if she understood the procedures and risks, talked about what happened when bones needed to be lengthened. There would be metal within and around her shin bones. He made certain she understood, but in the end she was ready.

So for the umpteenth time, Black Jack put his little girl under. The violence of breaking his darling's legs was not lost on him; it was a violent operation, full of cracking and drilling, tightening, and expensive metal pieces. The post-op recovery was rough, but Pinoco was _tough_. He helped her through the worst of the pain, and on her first bedridden day he brought home a blue teddy bear for her to squeeze.

The worst part was turning the keys, he recalled. Yes. Turning the keys was a hellish process. Pinoco always screamed, no matter how prepared she was, and there were plenty of tears to follow. The moment was dreaded in the worst way. There was no method that could relax her, no words that could take the shattering anguish from the act. He would, after their supper, slip on a pair of latex gloves and lift her up onto an examination table; from there he would turn her to one side, saying, "After_ this_ one, there's only three left," Or two left or one left, whatever the case was. She would begin whimpering as he drew near, and he would make shushing noises, take the key in his hand and, using the other to hold her leg steady, twist. Always she screamed. From there it went fast. He would turn her around, twist the second key, flip up her skirt and give her a shot of painkiller so she could sleep easily,

In the morning she was _always_ better. There was an energy within her soul that drove her forward; Black Jack wished he knew her secret. Ever-ready to do her part around the house, she learned to maneuver herself from her bed to her wheelchair, and from there to roll into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Breakfast! Even with her legs on hiatus, she cooked breakfast. Black Jack, often awakened by the smell of hotcakes, sweetened rice, and eggs, would move into the dining room to find a table full of diligently prepared food.

"Morning, Doc! Coffee's on the table."

"You're feeling better, I see. Good."

"Don't you give me that high-and-mighty shit. Say 'thank you' or you'll get cold oatmeal."

"Hmm…"

At the table they generally focused on their plates. Black Jack would read the paper (if, by chance, it was delivered on time; usually it wasn't) and Pinoco would talk, talk, talk about her plans for that day. Often she would ask to have a play date with her friend, Sharaku––a small boy with a weak countenance.

"If I'm not busy today," Black Jack would say. Usually he wasn't.

After breakfast, Pinoco generally asked for help in the bathroom. She was very prudent about such things, and Black Jack couldn't blame her one bit for it. He knew the pain of such medical necessities, how embarrassing it was to require help in the toilet. It forced him to remember the unpleasant details of his own hospitalization and more specifically how he had to piss in a bag for the better part of two years. So he obeyed when, once placed over the bowl, she waved him out of the bathroom so she could do her business in private.

Then it was time to help her get dressed.

"I want the red overalls today."

He would dig around in the dresser drawers for the desired article. "You know, you should really pick the clothes out ahead of time. I don't have to look for them that way."

"You're just a big lazy-bones."

"Ah. I see. Whatever you won't do is a reflection of my laziness, is that it?"

"Hurry, doc! Sharaku's waiting!"

"Alright, alright. Here we go." Working as a team, they would fit the clothes over her body. Black Jack even tied her shoes for her.

If the doctor wasn't busy, Pinoco would be out the door soon afterward. He was glad that her closest friend was a gentle soul, one who took things slowly and warily. Pinoco was an active, bullheaded little girl, and she needed to be watched over in her recovering state. Sharaku was good for this.

-

And so it was, the weeks of rehabilitation fading into months, the bones growing longer by tiny fractions, the relationship between them growing stronger, a special bond between father and daughter. Pinoco learned patience, and she often sat in on Black Jack's home operations, learning to help in the small ways she could. She learned also the basics of surgical preparation, the names of several common tools, and the codes and mannerisms of the O.R. She had matured into a more alert and in-depth child, and was a joy to be around, albeit being just a tad behaviorally challenged.

Black Jack even began to look forward to the conversations they would have, and he realized that she had become an integral part of his life, beyond "just" a patient or "just" a dependant. She was truly his companion; she brought balance to his life. Without her, he would be so much _less _than a man. For, in the end, it was she who held up a mirror to his actions, allowing him to see and thus evaluate the morality and ethics of his choices.

It got to the point where he never really questioned bringing her on his business trips. Her companionship was too valuable, too enjoyable. With her wit and childish optimism, she could ease the stresses that went along with his dark and always illegal work. Upon returning from a brutal job––a twelve-hour operation of the spinal cord, a bullet lodged in the midbrain, whatever it was–– he could always expect a cup of tea and big hug.

He realized this, almost painfully, late one night in a rainy September. At just before one in the morning, the phone rang long and loud until he finally stumbled out into the hallway in his underwear.

"What??" He barked into the receiver.

"Dr. Black Jack, this is Doctor Kelly––Stanford Medical Center, America––I'll get straight to the point: There's been an earthquake, and our hospitals are filled to the brim with injured."

Black Jack took a moment to reflect upon this matter, but his generosity was nil. "How does this affect me, Doctor Kelly? I don't work for the Red Cross, and I'm certainly not going to start now."

His harsh words were an attempt to make the doctor desperate. Desperate people would work on his terms, always.

"I'm asking for your help on a single case. There's a young man, the son of a friend of mine, who has such severe injuries to his legs that I fear amputation is our only option. That is, unless, you are willing to come and operate on him. I have such great faith in your abilities. Please, Doctor––tell me you'll come."

"My fee is not cheap. You know this."

"I am willing to contribute to the cause, and the family is ready to dip into and beyond their savings in order to pay for your services. I am begging you, sir––please. I do not want to see this young man as an amputee."

"Very well. I will take the next flight I can catch. Please have amenities within the hospital arranged for me ahead of time."

"My thanks to you, sir. A million thanks."

"I haven't even examined the patient yet. Save your gratitude. Stabilize the patient and prepare him for surgery."

"As is expected, Doctor."

He hung up the phone and began to shuffle back to his room. His mind moved into lucidity as he began to plan his latest trek: he would need a one-way ticket for a flight that would take him halfway across the world––he would not need his own tools, but he would take them anyway––a hotel––and––Pinoco?

It was late, and she was still wheelchair-bound. But this was to be a long and difficult job, and he would certainly be pressured to take on several extra cases while there. On a whim, he decided to wake her up. He went to her door, knocked gently, and poked his head in.

"Pinoco-chan."

Silence.

"Pinoco."

From the thick of sleep, her voice: "Mm?"

"I've got to leave, Pinoco."

"Why?"

"There's been an earthquake in America. A boy is––well, he's badly injured. They're afraid amputation is the only option. I've been offered payment for his treatment. I must go. Right now." He paused. "You can come with me if you want."

"I'll go with you, Doc. I will."

"All right, then. I'm going to get dressed. I'll be along to help you afterward, ok?"

"Yes, Doc." She said, sounding more alert, and he thought: _She has never called me father._ He had always been her doctor, and she had always been his patient. Even after so many years together, so many moments of laughter and closeness, so many bedtime stories and honest hugs, he was still her _sensei, _her good doctor. "Doc" was a term of endearment, yes, and used very loosely. Yet it was never father––and though he often referred to her as his daughter, to better explain their relationship to others, it too was an oversimplified term, one that often felt wrong in his mouth.

He pondered this as he stole away to his bedroom to dress.

Dressing, for him, was a deliberate and calculated process. All of his clothes were neatly tucked away in the closet, all items clean and pressed. He removed the articles he wanted and laid them out onto his bed, and with all the stolidity he could muster he began to put them on. He dressed very formally regardless of his business; anything else felt unnatural to him. He liked to think that his dress intimidated people and thus made his negotiations easier. So it was always a crisp white shirt, buttoned to the neck, with a staunch tie and black slacks. Nondescript dress shoes finished the ensemble to an abrupt degree.

He cracked the bones in his shoulders and hands. It was going to be a long night.

When he reemerged to help Pinoco dress, he found that she had done quite a job of gathering her things and getting ready. There was a small suitcase already packed with clothes and other essentials. She explained it as he helped her to get her clothes on.

"I keep a suitcase under my bed," She said proudly. "Because I know we might have to leave at any time."

This he marveled at. "That's a very adult thing to do, Pinoco."

With her clothes on and her little suitcase ready to go, Black Jack wheeled her out to the front door. He remembered then how hard it was raining.

"Do you know where your rain slicker is?" He asked.

"It's hanging on my door."

He went to fetch it, and upon tying it around her he picked her up and carried her, quickly, to the car.

"In you go!" He said lightly, placing her in the passenger seat. "Buckle up, sweet pea."

The rain poured. His hair and jacket were instantly soaked, and he ran as fast as he could to the driver's side. The door slammed shut.

"All right, Pinoco. You ok? Ready to go?"

"Aye aye, sensei!"

He started the car and began the first leg of their long trip to America, where no doubt the hours would be long, the work would be stressful, and the conditions less than perfect. But he knew that with his little girl's help, it would be a pleasant enough stay, a good job to be followed by good work.

-

Then there were the days when he couldn't even get out of bed.

Those days were the worst; they were black and suffocating days. Sometimes the pain just caught up with him and his body would hurt as though he had been struck buy a train. His mind was just as broken, his dreams infected and swollen with melancholy thoughts.

It harkened back to his younger days, his days as a child, when he had been hospitalized for months on end. All of that pain and fear had accumulated over the years, had become emotionally and physically smothering. It had been incredibly difficult––and lonely–– in that hospital bed. And sometimes those feelings would come back to him, even as an adult. The only way he knew how to deal with it was to simply wallow in bed all day; it was a disgusting practice, yes, but the hurt was just too much.

With Pinoco growing older and wiser, however, all of that changed.

One particular morning, when he had already resigned himself to a day of stillness, she burst through the bedroom door in a fit.

"Get up, Doc!"

"Pinoco," He managed. "Get out of here."

"No! I won't stand for this again!"

He tried to ignore her.

"I'm so _tired_ of this! Get your ass out of bed!" She began beating her fists on his back.

"Pinoco!"

But she was already pulling at his shoulders, forcing him to sit up. He felt the weight in his chest loosen.

Pinoco had breakfast ready for him. At first he ate solemnly. He was angry at her for ruining his day…until he realized that she had done nothing of the sort. Forced to deal with his pain, Black Jack found that by doing nothing, he had only fed his feelings of self-pity and loathing.

_I'll be damned, _he thought. _That crabby little shithead really knows how to take care of me._

That she did. He found that he couldn't help but be a little jealous of her––she possessed a level of intuition that was much too advanced for her age. Pinoco was a special child. Her ability to see through his introverted selfishness was just that, _her _ability, her own special gift. And she was brave, too––far braver than he had been at her age. She always put her foot down when she felt she had good reason to.

In many ways she bettered him. She was a gentler person. Her heart was less jaded, and more open to the many curiosities of life. Black Jack was also jealous of this; the fact that Pinoco's life was just beginning, and she was ready to take it on in full-force. He couldn't deny it––she would grow up to be just as beautiful and insightful as her heart would allow. No trauma would break her. He would do his best to ease her through whatever heartbreak loomed in her future––whether it be her special body, or something else entirely. Even at her tender age, she was already easing him through his own lows.

"Well, Doc," She said once, after hearing him recount his failure with Doctor Honma––which had driven him to tears as they sat together on the sofa. "You can have the first piece of cake, because you tried so hard to save his life!"

Amazed, he had accepted the plate with wet eyes.

And she was _always_ doing stuff like that. Just a few weeks prior, they had been preparing to operate on a businessman who had cancer in his abdominal wall. It was nothing of severe consequence––mostly a job to pay the bills. They didn't even try to get to know him; just took the tests, accepted the check, and put him under. Black Jack had been scrubbing at the sink, watching Pinoco do her prep work with a spacey expression on her face. Dressed in her own set of scrubs that were just a tad big on her, she was mopping the businessman's enormous belly with iodine. The orange fluid stained everything it touched. She laughed as she applied it.

"What're you laughing at, sweetie?"

She set aside the hemostat and cotton that she had been using. "He's so fat!" She said happily. "His belly is so gross."

"He's a pig, alright."

"I feel good about taking his money."

He winked at her. "Shall we begin?

-

Black Jack gazed into the case of tools, detached. His mind was far away, and he was thinking that the case and the menagerie of silver tools within were an austere reminder of the nature of his life and line of work. They were––_cold_ and _organized_, just like his office with the sterile computer desktop, the rolodex next to the printer, and the filing cabinets, with their excruciatingly systematic arrangement. It was all so professional, and so very _real,_ that he could hardly believe that his practice was still illegal.

What a concept, he thought. I'm raising a child in an illegitimate house.

With an honest sigh, he closed the case and stood. The kitchen clock was striking one in the morning. He felt his exhaustion suddenly, and realized how foolish he had been to throw such a fit over his bad day. Sometimes things just didn't work out, and that was no excuse to break things, or slam doors, or yell at his only companion, the one who loved him enough to put up with his horrible temper and less-than-clear sense of ethics. Guilt-ridden, he ran a hand over his face and through his hair, rubbed his eyes tiredly and started back to Pinoco's room. As much as he hated to admit that he had, in fact, been wrong, he didn't look forward to dealing with her attitude in the morning. That, and––well––maybe he was sorry. If just a little.

The floorboards squeaked as he moved toward her bedroom door.

He didn't knock, instead pushed the door open gently. Her nightlight glowed from the corner and illuminated her room, a room filled with stuffed animals and bright prints. As soon as he entered, she whipped around in her covers.

"What is it now, _Doctor_?" She said, a smoldering expression on her face.

He stifled the urge to be crappy right back at her. "I'm…sorry. That I said 'fuck'."

She looked at him warily, as if he might be insane. "You're through with your tantrum?"

He sighed. "I was angry because I had a bad day, all right?"

"It doesn't matter _what_. It matters that you were being mean."

"I know," He conceded. "I'm sorry that I was short with you. It wasn't your fault."

She sat up in bed. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do."

"Well then," She said, sticking her nose up in the air. "I forgive you."

"Thank you." He said, and after a moment, smiled wryly. "You're such a little shit, you know that?"

She hugged her pillow to her knees.

"I get it from you, you know."

-

END


End file.
